Shut Up
by sleepyaugustus
Summary: Annabeth's an avid gym-goer, and the strange enigma in the bright green nylon shorts is entirely too good at...well, everything he does. She knows there has to be something - at least one thing wrong with him. And, boy, is it something. :: prompt fill for pjowriters


**PROMPT** : " _will you guys please do the "we work out at the same gym" one for percabeth?_ " - son-of-rome (tumblr)

* * *

It's eighty-seven degrees out and a Wednesday when she officially meets him.

Annabeth's been a member at her gym for four months—ever since she was met with a fractured tailbone from using her neighbor's old work-out DVDs she bought at their garage sale last March. (Okay, so maybe they aren't so much actual functioning discs as they are homemade VHS tapes starring Mrs. Peterson performing an eighties exercise groove. But that's besides the point, _really_.) The embarrassment of explaining herself at the following doctor's visit had provided enough motivation to spend an extra twelve dollars a month for a membership at the fitness center two blocks from her apartment. The one directly across the street from the bakery she'd come to know quite well.

Between classes at college and keeping herself fed, she's managed to set up a schedule she follows sort of religiously. Every Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday are gym days, all other free time is spent succumbing to the calls of junk food and lazing around studying her _History of Architecture and Exterior Design_ notes. Her apartment's a mess, her workspace at her desk is messier, but the strict calendar she runs by helps to push her in the right direction when she's feeling lost in all the chaos of life is something close to sterile.

Right now, her feet slap down steadily on the treadmill she's using, and she follows the beat in her mind as she looks at the gym around her. There's a group of guys by the weights, grunting as they lift the dumbbells above their heads, and then there's a toned-and-tanned chick at the bench presses. Before Annabeth moves her eyesight back to the controls in front of her, she spots a familiar blur of black hair and neon green nylon at a treadmill a few machines away from her.

The guy—Green Shorts, she likes to call him—joined the gym only a few weeks after she did. She remembers the first time she saw him, whistling a familiar tune she couldn't put a name to as he left the mens' locker room with a towel slung over his shoulders. Since then, she's always kept an eye on him.

Because while his hair is an atrocity and the color of his shorts burns the back of her very retinas, his workout ethic is seriously commendable and she doesn't think she's ever witnessed a more focused gym-goer. He always plugged into white ear-buds as he works out, sweat dripping from his dark brows as he pushes himself harder and harder. Every week is different, but his effort never dulls. Green Shorts is entirely too enthusiastic for a guy her age, assuming he's in college as well, and Annabeth just cannot fathom how he has stayed so in-groove over the duration of time she's known of him.

The doors open behind her as a middle-aged woman enters the gym and Annabeth is hit with a blast of heat that has her dizzy in her movements. Scooping up her bottle of water, she curses the July heat and location of the running machines by the front entrance, dribbling a little coolness over her forehead after taking a swig. A quick glance at Green Shorts reveals him unaffected, tromping along at a decent pace as though not disrupted at the Satan's breath heat that washed into the room only seconds ago.

Her teeth clench and she pushes herself, annoyed at the boy's seemingly unwavering drive. For a moment, she wonders what could be wrong with him. He's a decently attractive young man with enough money to afford an overpriced gym membership, which implies that he's not a drug addict or a parent. She squints her eyes, sizing him up in a way she's done at least a hundred times in the last four months. He could be a jerk, she supposes, but he never seemed overtly rude to anyone she's noticed him interacting with before. Maybe he has a girlfriend; maybe he has a _boyfriend_.

After she realizes her staring has become creepy, she tries to return focus to her own health, turning up the speed on her treadmill and controlling her breathing as the belt beneath her rolls a little jerky at first, then smooths out. A few minutes later, he's finished and heading into the mens' locker room. Annabeth ignores the fact that she notices in the first place.

When she's done suffering through five miles of steady jogging in her old tennis shoes and her legs feel positively weak, she shuts down the machine and hops off, reaching for a towel to wipe her damp forehead. Her skin is wet and she feels gross, wanting nothing more than the promise of a lukewarm shower in the locker room and one of those sinfully glazed doughnuts they sell at the bakery across the street.

Sneakers squeaking against the black tile floors, she spins around, already imagining the greasy soap in the public stalls she'll have to scrub a layer of skin off to remove. She sets foot for the showers on the opposite side of the room, but doesn't anticipate a person to be standing in her path. There's a split second for her to realize this, but she's already too far gone to stop herself from plowing over six-feet of freshly-washed dude.

Green Shorts is apparently just as taken back. His arms flail out and he falls backwards as her weight knocks into his chest. She has time to let out a muffled "Whoa!" before she's cut off by obnoxiously loud music.

"WOULD YOU PUT UP RESISTANCE, WOULD IT MAKE A DIFFERENCE, WOULD YOU KNOW THE REAL ME?" The white headphones are dangling from his ears, the wire uselessly swaying in front of him. An iPhone lays on the ground, blasting the words to a song Annabeth has heard hummed at least three times a week for the past four months. Green Shorts' cheeks are rapidly flooding with color as the music plays on. "ME IN MY OLD BLUE JEANS!"

She's not sure what's wider, her gaping mouth or Green Shorts' shocked eyes. For a few seconds there's nothing but the bright tinkling sounds of Hannah Montana's "Old Blue Jeans," then Annabeth soon breaks from her stupor. "Is that-"

"Shut up."

Startled, her head jerks back a little. "Excuse me-"

" _Shut_ up," he interrupts again. "Shut your mouth right now."

Still shocked, her mouth falls open wider.

" _No_. Shh. Shut your mouth," he commands, expression something a little like mortified.

"Don't tell me to shut up!" she fires back, feeling somewhat wronged at a virtual stranger's blunt demands. "You shut up!"

"Just don't say anything, Curly!"

The music still plays loud and persistent, demanding attention, and Annabeth glances around, expecting an audience. She finds no one giving them the time of day, all other gym-goers focused on themselves.

"Curly?" Annabeth manages, helping herself off the floor. "Did you just call me _Curly_?"

If his embarrassment has the power to magnify, it must in that moment, because it looks like Green Shorts wants to wither away and soak into the earth like rainwater after a fruitful storm. He hastily scrambles to pick up his phone before the second verse starts, but it's too late for Annabeth to unhear what's already been blasted into the open air of the gym. "Forget this happened," he begs, flaming cheeks speaking words his mouth doesn't. "We won't ever have to mention it again."

Although shocked, Annabeth gathers herself to say, "Not in your life."

His eyes flick to hers, surprised and fearful. "Wha-"

"I have waited for almost four months-" Annabeth interrupts heatedly, letting a blessed moment of relief wash over her. "- _four months_ \- for you to mess up. For you to show the weakness I knew slept somewhere inside of you. And today, I have _finally_ discovered your flaw. You're a fraud, Green Shorts. You're not a bad-ass, legit sports legend on steroids. You're a _weirdo_."

With a look that expressed confusion and fear, he slowly slipped his newly-silenced phone into his pocket and started to back away. "Maybe you should get a day job, lady."

"You listen to prepubescent tiny girl human music, and you should be ashamed."

The man in the neon nylon halted, jaw locking. "I won't tell you again, Curly. Don't go around yelling it for all the gods to hear." He took a step forward. "And I'll have you know that her music is catchy and upbeat and I absolutely _adore_ everything that Miley Cyrus has brought to this cold, barren planet. And you should be ashamed for not appreciating something so cheerful."

" _Excuse me_?" Annabeth took a step forward as well, eyes searing. "I don't let people silence me, Green Shorts. If I want the community to know about your shameful guilty pleasures, I'll make sure every damned person in this gym receives a well thought-out and detailed message in their e-mails by tomorrow morning, and you won't ever have the power to stop me. So, might I suggest that you shut up, before this becomes a very real and dangerous threat to you."

For a moment, the boy is silent, watching onto her with piercing eyes matching that of his brightly colored pants. His nostrils flare and he presses his mouth shut. "Okay," he mumbles. "Fine."

"Okay," Annabeth agrees, trying not to let her eyes linger too long on the straight press of his lips, or the droplets of water steadily dripping from the tips of his black hair.

It's quiet for all of a minute before he's blurting out, "Green Shorts?"

She winces. "Curly?"

"Percy."

"Annabeth."

Green Shorts — Percy — nods in approval, the score even. "Wanna get doughnuts across the street—on me?"

"Would you put up resistance?"

His forehead crinkled. "What?"

"Would it make a difference?"

"Oh, God."

"Would you know the real me?"

"It'd be more humane to kill me."

"Me and my old blue jeans."

"Is it a yes or a no?" Percy almost weeps, eyes pained and cheeks burning with the heat matching that of the weather outside — which was to say, ungodly.

"Sure, but let me shower first. I stink."

"Yeah, you're right."

" _Shut up_."

* * *

 **check out pjowriters on tumblr for more pjo/hoo fic!**


End file.
